


World Cold, Aziraphale Warm

by maddiemaynot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:12:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddiemaynot/pseuds/maddiemaynot
Summary: Essentially, Aziraphale and Crowley enjoying the intimacy and romance of not having Heaven/Hell breathing down their necks. Cuddling on the sofa and trying to go on an actual date.





	World Cold, Aziraphale Warm

It’s been a few weeks since the almost-Armageddon and Aziraphale is sat on the sofa in the back of the book shop. He is reading: some first edition he had acquired at the time of publication. He is wearing those small round glasses he favours - not because he needs them, simply because he feels like those are the types of glasses one should wear while reading priceless first editions.

He looks up from his book, directing his eyes over the top of the frame of his glasses to watch Crowley. The demon has been pacing around the shop with a nervous energy. He takes a seat and Aziraphale goes back to reading, only to look up once again when Crowley stands back up to take yet another lap of the shop. 

“My dear boy, what on _earth_ are you doing?” Aziraphale finally asks, after this pattern has been repeated several times. “It’s rather distracting, all this pacing. I’m trying to read.”

Crowley grumbles something under his breath, and sits himself back down in the armchair opposite Aziraphale. He draws his legs up to his chest, and pulls a blanket from the back of the chair and proceeds to tuck it around himself, covering his shoulders down to his feet.

Then he kicks the whole blanket off himself, legs flailing rather dramatically, stands back up, and goes to take another lap of the shop.

Aziraphale sighs and carefully places the book on the arm of the sofa, careful to mark his place with a rather ornate silver bookmark. He removes his glasses and hangs them from the neck of his sweater, and walks across the room to meet Crowley mid-shop-lap.

“Crowley, are you _alright_?” Aziraphale asks, more than a hint of concern in his voice.

“It’s too bloody _cold_ , angel,” Crowley growls, trying to push past. “If I keep moving, I can bear it.”

Aziraphale sighs again, and goes back to the sofa. He sits and pats the seat next to him, watching Crowley. “I’m sure it’ll be warmer if you sit next to me. The sofa has more than enough room for two.”

Crowley hesitates: “Are you sure?” 

Aziraphale lets out a third sigh. He’s learned over the last few weeks that he sighs a lot around Crowley. The untrained eye might mistake it for exasperation and it is in a way. Yet each sigh also holds a large amount of affection for the anxious demon. “Anything for a spot of peace and quiet, so I can read my book in peace, my dear. Join me.” He adds a slight edge to the last two words, so that the demon can’t protest further.

Crowley slinks over and perches himself on the edge of the sofa, as far from Aziraphale as he can possibly manage to be. He looks vaguely uncomfortable, as if he is unsure of the rules of this particular social interaction. He’s just about to stand back up again, feeling wholly more uncomfortable at being this close to the angel than he was cold and pacing, when the blanket that had previously lain discarded at the foot of the armchair floats itself over and wraps itself around his shoulders. He looks at Aziraphale, whose gaze is steadily focused on his book, the glasses perched back on the end of his nose. 

“Thanks,” Crowley mumbles, and relaxes slightly, sinking down in the seat slightly. He’s warmer already, despite being sat so far from Aziraphale. He suspects he could be warmer though, and considers trying to discreetly shuffle along the settee to soak up more of the angel’s warmth.

Aziraphale turns a page of his book, and Crowley watches him. He admires the shape of his face, the tiny furrow in his brow as he frowns slightly at some complex passage in whatever he’s reading, his lips occasionally mouthing out a word or two. The tightly curled hair on his head seems to hold it’s own soft glow, white blond. Crowley thinks of the halos in renaissance art. 

He isn’t warm enough yet and he’s pretty certain that if he was asked in a court of law that would be his defence for his next action. “No, your honour,” he would say, “it had absolutely nothing to do with the way Aziraphale’s hair was catching the light, or the way the tendons were standing out on the back of his hands as he held his book up. And there was no way it was influenced by the way his lips were pursing while he digested the text in front of him. It was because I was _too cold_ , and that is the only reason.” 

His next action is, of course, to give a sort of strangled yelp, and throw himself under Aziraphale’s arm, his legs stretched out along the sofa, an elbow landing in Aziraphale’s ribcage, and the top of his head pressed up in between Aziraphale’s upper arm and chest.

The whole motion makes Aziraphale jump rather violently, and he almost manages to throw his book across the room. As it is, he manages to hold on to the book with one hand, holding it as far away from any potential demon-related danger as possible.

He looks down at Crowley, prepared to be annoyed with him, prepared to scold him for almost harming a priceless book and for the bruised ribs. He looks down at Crowley, the words forming in his head, and whatever annoyance had been inside him melts away. Crowley is staring up at him with those golden eyes, and all thoughts of scolding dissipate.

Instead, Aziraphale simply shifts around on the sofa, so that his legs stretch along down the sofa. Crowley’s comparatively skinnier and longer legs are stretched out too, in between Aziraphale and the back of the sofa. Crowley relaxes down so that his head is laying on Aziraphale’s soft stomach. He reaches down to drag the blanket up so it covers them, then drapes an arm over the top of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale lets a small smile form on his lips and wraps his arms so that he can rest the spine of his book on Crowley’s shoulder. He clicks his fingers softly, and the fireplace roars to life. 

~

They lie like this regularly now. Throughout the winter it becomes commonplace for Aziraphale to simply grab a favourite book off a bookshelf, lie out on the sofa, and wait for Crowley to come drape himself on top of him, and they lie there, legs and arms entwined, while Aziraphale reads and Crowley warms up.

They lie there like this usually until Aziraphale will gently nudge Crowley. “My dear, I do have some bits to be getting on with.” And Crowley will grumble, but untangle himself and slink out of the shop, probably headed back to the flat, to tend to his plants. Aziraphale never really means it when he implies Crowley should leave. If he were to be truly honest with himself, he would say that he’s worried that the demon might start to get sick of him. Before the Almost Armageddon, they rarely spent this much time together. 

One particular evening, sometime before or after Christmas (Aziraphale never kept track of these things. He simply noticed the red and gold decorations going up around London, then would notice when the extra lights and music faded away to make way for the love-hearts and roses of St Valentine’s Day), Aziraphale and Crowley are lying on the sofa as has become their norm. Having seen the outside light grow dimmer, and those fairy-lights adorning the other shops on the street begin twinkling, Aziraphale gently nudges Crowley and gives him the hint to go home, not really meaning it. He suspects Crowley would like to spend some time caring for his plants and, besides, Aziraphale has always been a firm believer in the old adage: “absence makes the heart grow fonder”.

“I think I’d better be getting on with some errands, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, gently shaking Crowley. 

“Nnngg,” Crowley replies, not moving. “World cold. Aziraphale warm.” He wriggles as if to bury himself deeper in Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Well then,” Aziraphale replies, pleased and with a soft smile, “I suppose I had better put another log on the fire.” He gently pushes Crowley off him and goes to the fireplace. 

“You’re an _angel_ , you could _miracle_ the fire to stay burning all night!” Crowley protests, feeling all of a sudden too cold without the angel there. He stretches an arm out to Aziraphale, making a pathetic grabbing motion with his hand. “Come _back_ ,” he whines. 

Aziraphale ambles back over to the sofa, the fire once again roaring happily. A mug of hot cocoa has appeared in his hand, and he sits back down, sliding his legs back underneath his demon. There is a negotiation of limbs and several movements that wouldn’t look out of place in a game of Twister, until they are both settled and comfortable again. He picks his book back up and starts to read again. The crackling sounds of the flames in the fireplace are a soundtrack to the comfort he feels, sat here with his best friend, reading a treasured book.

Before long, Aziraphale, who before the Almost-Armageddon had rarely (if ever) slept, feels his eyes growing heavy. It’s something about the heat from the fire, the cool air around them, the grounding weight of the demon lying on top of him, the sparkling lights breaking through the curtains in the window, and perhaps he can smell some sort of spice or cooking drifting its way through the crack under the door. The whole thing is having a soporific effect on him, and soon his eyes are shut completely. The hand holding his book loses its grip and the book falls open, face down, onto his chest. His arm falls off the sofa, fingertips grazing the ground. 

Crowley looks up at the angel. Aziraphale’s mouth is hanging slightly open, and he is snoring lightly. Crowley props himself up on his elbow, to gaze at his angel. The soft jawline, the upturned nose. That hair. He is wearing a jumper that Crowley always complains about – a hideous cream Aran sweater. Crowley moans every time Aziraphale wears it – “It’s so _lumpy_ , angel, it’s not even a good _colour_ ” – and Crowley will never admit that he loves the softness of the wool against his cheek when they’re curled up on the sofa like this. He regularly threatens to burn the sweater, but he never would. He lays his head back down on Aziraphale’s torso and moves his head a bit, to feel the warmth and softness of the jumper. He knows he should probably wake the sleeping angel up and send him off to bed. He knows that he would then have to go home, to his all too empty flat. He doesn’t want to move, but he should. The debate rages on (quietly and not really at all) as he listens to Aziraphale’s soft breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The effect is calming to the usually restless demon (he sleeps, he’s fond of sleep, but since the Almost Armageddon it’s often been restless, filled with images of hellfire pillars and avenging angels) and soon he too is sleeping soundly, the blackness behind his eyelids a welcome reprieve from the usual nightmares.

~

They’ve taken to sleeping together like this on the sofa more regularly now. Being occult (“ _Ethereal_ ,” Aziraphale would protest) beings, they don’t have to deal with the all-too-human problems of sore backs and aching necks from sleeping in weird positions. Without heaven and hell breathing down their necks, they are beginning to take full advantage of the intimacy they’ve both craved for so long. Small things – Aziraphale reading passages from his favourite books to Crowley, Crowley bringing a CD player over to the bookshop so he can play Aziraphale some of his favourite songs. Crowley has started to try some of the food that Aziraphale orders in their favourite restaurants, his hand snaking over the table to spear a piece of cake or meat or potato on a fork. Aziraphale pretends to bat him away, but secretly enjoys that Crowley is tasting the foods the angel has grown to adore over the years. There are nights when they both drink, where they forget whose wine glass was whose, but they don’t really mind or care and after a while neither pretends to. 

On Valentine’s Day, Aziraphale attempted to cook a meal from scratch for Crowley. Crowley hadn’t realised this and had in turn been trying to cook for Aziraphale. Neither attempt had been successful, and Crowley (having lost his temper with the oven in his flat and kicked it so hard he’d had to perform a demonic miracle to un-break his toe) had called Aziraphale on the phone, hopping slightly on one his left foot as the pain in his right subsided: “Angel, I’ve got us a table at the Ritz for tonight. You coming?” Aziraphale, standing in his kitchen, surrounded by the ruins of a meal that was somehow both too burnt and too raw, had readily agreed, and the night had ended with the pair once again curled up on the sofa, Aziraphale snoring lightly, and Crowley sleeping his new found dreamless sleep, that only really seemed to happen when he was Aziraphale. Neither had mentioned that it was Valentine’s day.

Aziraphale has taken to holding doors for Crowley, and lighting candles as well as the fire on those sofa nights. He starts leaving little notes around the bookshop for Crowley to find. The notes say everything and nothing at the same time – things like wishing the demon a pleasant day, or that he’s looking forward to their next meal. Every time he finds one, Crowley finds he has to stop for a moment to recollect his thoughts – each note seems to bring so much emotion up in his throat that his brain will stop functioning properly for a few seconds. Crowley has never experienced this: this much care and affection being directed his way. He resolves to repay the angel in some way.

Spring rolls around, as it persists in doing every year, and on the unseasonably hot May Bank Holiday weekend, Crowley saunters into the bookshop. Aziraphale looks up from the desk he is sat at, peering over the top of his glasses at the demon who is dressed in his usual garb – too tight black jeans, black jacket, sunglasses. It would be a normal occurrence, except for the oversized, rather old-fashioned picnic basket in his hand.

“Are you delivering another Antichrist, dear?” Aziraphale quips, shuffling some papers and getting up to greet his friend.

Crowley hisses. “Don’t even joke about that, angel!” He hoists the basket higher and opens one side. “Picnic. Today. Now, in fact. Come on!”

Aziraphale, glad for an excuse to lock up the bookshop, follows Crowley of out the door, carefully locking it behind him and changing the sign to “Closed”. He climbs in the passenger side of the Bentley and Crowley starts the engine.

For the most part, the drive isn’t particularly eventful. Most of the time is spent idly chatting away about all manner of things. Occasionally, Aziraphale will do his best not to yell at Crowley when he breaks some driving law or another (“Will you _please_ stop swerving in and out of the lanes like that. This is a motorway, not a slalom course!”). Crowley spends a lot of time trying to stop the Bentley from playing “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” because he’s pretty certain the car is trying to make some sort of sarcastic point. Eventually, he lets the song play through and is extremely perturbed that the Bentley chooses "Seaside Rendezvous" as its next track.

They arrive at the town Crowley had chosen. Crowley had last been here some time in the 1800s and it had been peaceful then. A small village with a long stretch of stones leading to golden sand and the grey-blue ocean.

Crowley had _not_ been prepared for the mania of a seaside town on a bank holiday. As they get out of the car, he can hear a mother screeching for her children to “Stop playing in the car park- GET BACK AND STAND NEXT TO ME RIGHT NOW.” He can hear the shouts of children enjoying the pier, and the metallic whooshes and clanks of the rides at the amusement park that had definitely not existed when Crowley had last been here.

Crowley swallows the rising bile in his throat. He’s messed up. He should have checked this place out somehow, come here before, done a practise run, _anything_. “Come on angel,” he says, opening the driver’s door. “I got it wrong. We’ll go somewhere else.” 

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says, reaching into the back of the Bentley to pick up the picnic basket. “We’ve been driving for an hour, and it’s too hot to get back into that car. Besides, this is… lovely.” He begins marching towards the blue line of the sea on the horizon. Crowley follows behind, jogging slightly to catch up, and takes the basket off Aziraphale. He’s damned (well, he’s already damned but he knows what he means) if he’s going to let his angel do the heavy lifting on this trip.

When they arrive at the beach and pick their way carefully down the stairs to the sand, they become painfully aware that it would take more than one of their miracles to get any sort of privacy on this beach. Crowley has started to shrink into himself, his shoulders rising and head somehow retreating into his neck. He is embarrassed, ashamed he had brought the angel somewhere so… commercial. He’s brought Aziraphale - of tiny restaurants where they know your name, bookshops that no one has ever heard of, antique shops with snuff-boxes reserved just for him - to this… this… hellhole. It’s the only word for it really, and he’s been to hell. He feels entitled to the comparison. He considers removing his sunglasses and scaring away some of the families on the beach to make some breathing room for the pair of them but decides against it - he can see that any family leaving is quickly replaced by three more, like some sort of family holiday hydra. Besides, Aziraphale is never particularly pleased when Crowley scares people.

Aziraphale continues walking towards the sea, manoeuvring carefully around the hordes of children, toddlers and sunbathing parents. Crowley follows, and aims a kick at a sandcastle, but stops short of actually destroying the thing when Aziraphale glances back. Crowley is sure that the angel was only checking back to see if Crowley is following, but the look in Aziraphale’s eyes hints that perhaps he knew _exactly_ what Crowley had been thinking of doing.

Eventually, they find a smallish patch of sand that is just large enough for them both to sit comfortably far from the hordes of screaming children. They sit, Aziraphale crossed legged, and almost immediately Crowley jumps back up to his feet.

“It’s WET,” he wails. This day is going wrong, so wrong already and they haven’t even begun eating. To find a spot that suits them, they’ve had to venture too close to the waves and the sand has yet to dry out in the hot afternoon sun.

“Nonsense, it’s barely damp,” Aziraphale replies. “Anyway, we can miracle our clothes dry later.” He pats the sand beside him and Crowley lowers himself back down to the sand, folding his legs underneath him. He should have brought a blanket. He’d known he was forgetting something when he packed the basket, and now he can’t miracle one for them to sit on because there’s too many bloody humans on this beach.

He folds back the lid on the picnic basket and begins to pull out the contents. First, a bottle of champagne (Moët and Chandon, just like the song) and two glasses. Next, Crowley brings out some containers. He opens the first, and almost gags at the smell. 

“What HAPPENED?” he bawls. The smell of warm fish is overpowering, and both he and Aziraphale have tucked their noses into their shirts. 

Aziraphale’s shoulders are shaking and for a moment Crowley is worried that he’s driven his angel to tears, until Aziraphale speaks. 

“Is that… sushi?” Aziraphale can barely speak through his laughter. “Crowley, did you put sushi in a hot car with no way to keep it cool?” He throws his head back to guffaw loudly at the hilarity of the situation.

Crowley frowns. “I didn’t think…” he trails off, and grabs the bottle of champagne, looking horrified. “It’s _warm_!” He starts pulling the lids off of various containers, looking increasingly more horrified and distraught with every lid removed. “It’s all _warm_ , angel I’m so sorry, this was supposed to be-”

Aziraphale cuts him off. “Dear boy, it’s perfectly lovely. We’ll just pick around the bits we can’t eat. And leave the sushi for the gulls.”

Crowley gives a rather forlorn nod and sets to work trying to determine what food is still edible. Very little has survived the boiling heat of the car ride – meats and fish are all placed to one side – but one rather limp breadstick is still edible, and the butter hasn’t quite melted to a liquid, so the pair set about buttering and nibbling on that. Well. Aziraphale nibbles, holding the bread daintily between two fingers and savouring every bite. Crowley wolfs down piece after piece – he’d heard somewhere about “eating one’s feelings” and he’s trying it on for size. He’s not sure it suits him.

When the bread is finished, Aziraphale suggests they open the champagne. (“But it’ll be undrinkable!” Crowley protests. But Aziraphale insists and Crowley has never been able to deny anything his angel asks of him.) Crowley expertly pops the cork from the top and pours out two glasses. The champagne still bubbles and sparkles but when he takes a sip Crowley grimaces at the warmth of the drink. 

Eventually, the sun casting an orange glow over the sand, the beach starts to get quieter. Families have packed their buckets and spades up and are starting to make their ways to the restaurants and cafés along the beachfront. Young adults are beginning to walk to the pubs. Toddlers, exhausted from a day of sandcastles and chasing waves, are bundled into arms and stuffed into cars for the drive home. The noise has moved from the sand to the street and even though the drink might be too warm, the sand still too damp, Crowley feels a sort of peace settling over himself and the beach. 

He looks out over the sea. It’s a grey-green-blue. All three colours at once. He’s seen that somewhere before. The three colours fighting for dominance, light sparkling and dancing over the tops of the waves… It’s Aziraphale’s eyes. His eyes are the same colour as the sea.

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale asks, absentmindedly dusting sand off of a seashell.

Crap. Crowley tries to remember if he’d spoken his thought out loud. 

“Erm, I said ‘I like the colour of the sea,’” Crowley flounders. 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley with a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Yes. Rather matches my eyes, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley tries very hard to discorporate himself on the spot. 

“I like it here, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiles. “There’s a lot of love in this place. All those people, they love it here. The children especially.”

Crowley thinks on this for a moment. He’s never sure how to respond when the angel starts talking about love. He’s just trying to formulate a response, something witty and amusing, when a blur of white feathers descends from the heavens. He jumps up, shocked, knocking the bottle of champagne over in the process.

“What the-” he splutters, waving his arms to ward off the feathery beasts. His sunglasses glasses are knocked from his face. He can hear Aziraphale yelling, through the clouds of feathers. 

“Right, that’s it,” he resolves and his face changes and twists and he roars and the seagulls are gone as fast as they appeared, terrified and squawking.

“Oh, _thank you_.” Aziraphale is standing a good four feet from where he had been previously sat, looking rather more dishevelled than he had before. “Oh look, Crowley. They stole that sushi!” He begins to laugh, and something inside Crowley breaks a little.

“Right, that’s it,” he says again. “I’ve had enough. We’re going home. Back to London. I’ve had _enough_.” 

He starts a half-march, half-stumble walk over the sand, back towards the car park. He’s muttering under his breath, cursing seagulls and children and air conditioning and anything else he can think to blame for what has, he feels, caused the utter failure of this day.

When they’re both back in the Bentley (Aziraphale having taken longer to leave the beach than Crowley, having stopped to clean up the remains of the picnic), Crowley starts the engine and the drive home. He makes sure the speedometer doesn’t drop below 90mph the whole journey home, seething in silence. The Bentley doesn’t dare play any music, even when Aziraphale tries to play a Tchaikowsky CD to break up the waves of anger coming off of the demon. 

When they arrive back outside the bookshop, Crowley leaves the car running. His hands are gripped tight to the wheel, knuckles turning white from the pressure. 

“You know,” Aziraphale begins, “I can sense love.”

Crowley’s grip doesn’t loosen, his shoulders don’t relax. Why is the angel talking about his ridiculous love-dar again?

Aziraphale changes tack. He reaches his hand out and places it one one of Crowley’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” he says. Then he climbs out of the car and walks back to the bookshop without looking back at the Bentley.

It takes Crowley approximately three seconds. One to process the thank you, the “I can sense love”. One to turn the engine off and open his car door. One to join the angel at his side as he unlocks the door to the shop.

“Sofa?” he asks, his voice cracking ever-so-slightly, betraying him and revealing the emotions he’s trying so hard to hide.  
Aziraphale simply nods, a small smile on his face and they head inside.

~

It’s been a year since the almost-Armageddon and an angel and a demon are asleep, sharing a sofa, limbs entangled. The warm summer nights don’t bother them, they simply open the windows to let the breeze brush across their hot skin. Moths dance around the lamps in the bookshop and the streetlamps cast shadows across their faces. A sleepy plump hand grasps an equally sleepy slender one. They enjoy the intimacy. They are at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a headcanon that I worked on with someone on Facebook. I think it turned out pretty great! I think she's going to write her own version of what we came up with, so it'll be nice to compare when she's written hers!
> 
> Edit: offensiveagentpie posted her version and it's AWESOME and you should all go and read it


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